out in the rain--and back in the rain
by TheDevilYouDon't
Summary: "You don't leave his side for seven hours and forty-three minutes. That's exactly how much time it takes them to figure out what's wrong. And then it's just a few mumbled words and the flick of a healer's wrist and you feel his hand twitch in yours." Post-DH. H/Hr.


**A/N: **I should probably be writing other things, but I wrote this instead. So here you go.

Sorry about the gap in writing anything for this pairing.

Writer's block can be a bit of a bitch. Don't know if this helped or not.

Guess we'll find out.

Anyhow, this is post-DH. But…no real mentions of Romione—not sure why, now that I think about it. Some Hinny is mentioned. Not enough to sicken you. :3

Have fun.

…

_out in the rain—and back in the rain_

..

The only thing you distinctly remember from your first year is how Harry had looked in the hospital bed after everything—how pale he had been. You remember thinking that he might not live to be very old.

You're still not sure he will.

.

Ron arrives at your doorstep the night that it happens and says, "It's Harry," and that's all you need to hear before you're grabbing your coat.

.

He got hurt on the job, apparently—trying to nail down a former death eater—but he'd gotten distracted, or _something_, and he'd been the one to get hurt this time.

You can't remember a time when he's ever looked so shattered.

Ron shifts his weight beside you, and a healer rushes in, asking if you're family.

"No. But…" You pause, because, really, you _are _family after nine years of being worried to death that he won't live to see his next birthday. So you say, "Yes."

They don't know what's wrong with him. They don't know what curse was used, so there's no possible way for them to help him until they've figured it out.

Ron says something to the healer in a raised, angry-sounding voice, but you don't hear what it is because you've gone numb.

You sit down in a chair next to Harry and watch the rise and fall of his chest because you're worried it may stop.

.

When you were sixteen, you pretended to cry over Ron.

You remember that night, the night that you'd run and Harry had followed. He'd held you in his arms on the cold stone steps of the astronomy tower and you remember how soft his shirt had felt underneath your cheek—the way it had grown damp with your tears.

He'd whispered things like, "It's okay, 'Mione," and, "He really is a twat, you know," and, somehow, that had made you cry more.

Because eventually, you weren't crying over Ron at all, but over the way Harry's cheek felt on the top of your head, the tiny circles he'd made on your arm with the tips of his fingers.

.

You don't leave his side for seven hours and forty-three minutes. That's exactly how much time it takes them to figure out what's wrong.

And then it's just a few mumbled words and the flick of a healer's wrist and you feel his hand twitch in yours.

Ron bites his lip on the other side of the bed and both of you wait for something miraculous to happen.

But Harry doesn't wake up.

The healer says that his body has been through quite the shock and that it might be a while before he does.

So, you wait.

.

Ron leaves sometime the next morning to inform his family of what's going on.

After what feels like hours, you rest your forehead on Harry's chest and listen to the thump of his heart. You close your eyes and wish you could drown in it.

.

Ginny is the first one of her family to enter. She rushes in and comes to a sudden stop at the sight of Harry in the bed.

You pick your head up to watch Mrs. Weasley rush over to him and comb her fingers through his hair.

"Oh, Harry," she whispers softly, trailing her fingertips down his cheek. "Why must you always put us through this?"

You want to laugh because she's right—he's been doing this to them from the very start—but it's not exactly funny. You think you must want to laugh because your only other option is to cry.

Ginny takes the second option and turns her face into Ron's shoulder.

.

They don't stay in the room long before they head to the waiting area down the hall.

Only so many people are allowed in the room at a time.

You stay and Ron asks you to get them if there's any change.

You nod because you're not sure if you'd be able to talk if you tried.

When you were little, you would watch those Disney cartoons with the singing princesses who always seemed to know who they were destined to marry.

You remember that, in one of them, all it had taken to wake one of the princesses up was a kiss from her true love.

You're not a prince and Harry is definitely not a princess—you're not even sure if you _believe _in soul mates or true love—but nothing else is working. So you lean over in your chair and gently press your lips to his.

His lips are cracked and the bottom one is ripped a little. He doesn't respond and he doesn't miraculously wake up.

You almost cry then because, even though you knew it was silly, you wanted, more than anything, for that to have worked.

.

The irony of the whole situation is the fact that you're asleep when he finally wakes up.

You feel it—his movement rippling the mattress that you've got your head rested on—and you sit up so quickly that you make yourself dizzy.

"Hermione?"

His voice is low and almost sounds pained, but you speak for the first time when you say, "Took you long enough."

His eyes blink slowly, widening when he finally notices his surroundings.

"What happened?"

.

He's released the next day and you hire a taxi to take you both back to his flat because you know he isn't strong enough to apparate.

He walks with jerky movements, almost like his legs have forgotten how to walk, and you hold his hand in the taxi.

"You don't have to stay," he tells you, after you've settled him into his bed.

"Yes, I do," you reply and his smile looks a little sad.

You make the both of you dinner and serve it to him in his room, flipping on the television he has across from his bed so that there's more than silence between you.

"I'm sorry, you know," he tells you as he spoons some of the soup you made him into his mouth. "I should have been more careful."

You don't say, _yes_, _you should have_, but you think it and say, "What did it feel like?" He stares at you blankly for a moment, so you add, "That spell. When he hit you."

"Oh." He looks over at the television for a moment. "Like my every part of me was being split in half."

.

You sleep on the couch, even though he offers for you to share the bed with him—to which you'd responded, "Maybe, if we were still eleven."

You really just can't allow yourself a luxury like that. You've wanted him for too long to really allow yourself to believe it could happen, and he may not be with Ginny anymore, but you know that doesn't mean he'll ever feel the same way.

.

You leave a note on his nightstand and a kiss on his forehead the next morning before you apparate to your own flat to shower and get fresh clothes.

By the time you return, he's awake and sitting up, reading in bed.

"I must need glasses," you say, leaning against the doorframe of his bedroom.

He looks up at you quizzically.

"There is no _way _Harry Potter is actually reading of his own free will."

He frowns to cover up his smile and throws a pillow at you.

.

Ron shows up with his entire family—minus his older brothers—in tow later that evening.

Mrs. Weasley barges in and immediately rushes to Harry's room, where you can hear her fussing over him.

There's a lovingly frustrated, "I'm _really _okay, you know," from Harry and Hermione covers her mouth to hide her smile.

Mr. Weasley greets her with a hug and then follows his wife's voice down the hall.

Ron closes the door and Ginny says, "How is he?"  
You want to say that he's perfect—that he's always been wonderfully strong and beautiful—but you just say, "He's getting better."

Ron bobs his head. "He's a real wanker. Did you tell him that? Did you mention what a wanker he is?"

Ginny glances at her brother. "Ron, _really_."

"No. He's always doing this, isn't he? Thought he would have had his fill once we left school, but I guess not."

"That's just his way of saying he cares," Ginny says.

You say, "I know," because you're used to it by now.

.

You let them all gather in his room because you've had him to yourself these past two days and you wander around his flat.

You'd been teasing earlier, because of how much he'd hated assigned reading in school, but he actually owns a lot of books. More than you'd think.

Two full bookcases line the walls of the second bedroom and you run your finger over the bindings.

You have to laugh at some of the titles, because he owns more poetry than you'd expected and you wonder how many of his self-proclaimed fangirls would swoon if they knew he had entire anthologies.

There are a few framed pictures on the shelves as well, one of them from when you'd finished your seventh year—one year late, that is.

Ron and Harry had wanted to celebrate—which was really just an excuse to get drunk. Harry had wanted a picture because he'd said your hair looked nice, which had made you blush more than you'd really been comfortable with.

Unfortunately, Ron was already far gone at that point, so the picture he'd taken was a little crooked, but you're both smiling in it and every so often, the Harry in the picture will look over at you and smile wider.

It's your favourite picture, maybe ever, so you pull it off the shelf and out of the frame.

It's when you go to put it in your pocket that you notice the folding lines in it.

You hear footsteps approaching, so you slide it into your pocket and turn around as the door opens.

It's Ginny.

"Hey, we were about to head out unless you needed one of us to stay with him so you can get some rest."

You thought you'd gotten over the years she'd been with Harry, but it hurts to breath for a second when you imagine her staying the night to watch him rather than you.

"No, that's okay," you tell her. "I'm more than happy to stay."

She nods and goes to leave, but stops herself short. "You make him happy, you know."  
You're caught off guard, so the only word you can muster is, "What?"

"He needs that. After all the absolute _shit _that he's been through. He deserves that."

There's nothing else for you to say, but, "Okay." Mostly because you're not even really sure what she's hinting at.

You see them out with a hug each, but Ginny gives you a firm look as she pulls away and you're not even sure if you'd just imagined it or not.

Harry seems happier when you go back into his room.

"Hey, where'd you disappear to?" he asks as you sit down on the empty side of his bed.

"Just figured I'd give you some time alone with them."

He laughs. "Well, I certainly got that. I'm feeling properly smothered now."

"They were just worried about you, Harry. That's all."

He nods and then looks over at you. "What about you? Were you worried about me?"

He's joking, you know, but you're completely serious when you reach out, brush your fingers through his messy hair and say, "You have no idea."

.

Harry insists that you sleep in the bed that night.

After several minutes of arguing about it, you give in and climb under the covers beside him.

He's asleep in minutes—it's almost scary how easily simple things have exhausted him these past few days—but you lay stiff for the better part of an hour, fighting the urge to curl into his side, before your eyelids flicker closed.

.

The bed is empty when you wake up the next morning.

You lay still for a few moments, gathering your thoughts, before you notice that something is burning.

You jump out of bed and follow the smell to the kitchen, only to be greeted by the sight of a barefoot, bed-headed Harry flinging the contents of a frying pan into the sink and mumbling, "Shit!" as he turns on the faucet.

"What are you doing?" you ask, walking over to peer into the sink.

He blushes and backs away, heading back over to the stove. "Well, um…I was trying to make you breakfast."

This is proven by the burnt remains of what you think is supposed to be a pancake crumbling into the drain.

"Oh." You lean back against the counter and watch him attempt to make another. "Why?"

He manages to do it this time without burning anything and he scoops the sloppiest pancake you've ever seen onto a plate by the stove.

"Um, well…you've just, you know…been taking care of me and all that and I wanted you to know that I appreciate it and, er, stuff."

It's probably the sweetest thing anyone has ever done for you, and you want to wrap him in your arms, but you resist the urge and let him finish making his pancakes.

They're a little crispier than you're used to, but you think you can get used to that.

.

You go back to work the next day because, as much as you'd like to stay with Harry, you also need money.

You barely get any work done and you don't really retain anything that is said to you, but somehow, you're still exhausted by the time you get home.

Your rarely-used phone rings while you're fixing yourself something to eat and you answer with a mouthful of food, thinking that—since everyone you talk to on a regular basis doesn't know how to use a telephone, it must be your parents or a wrong number.

"Hello?"

You hear a familiar laugh, followed by, "Granger, didn't anyone teach you not to talk with your mouth full?"

As you swallow, you can feel your face heat up in embarrassment. "Harry," you greet.

"Mhm. The one and only."

"Is there something you need?" you ask, making sure to sound exasperated.

"Well, yes, and no," he answers. "I wanted to first, ask how work was today."  
He never asks about work, so you just say, "It was okay," and wait for him to go on.

"That's good. Secondly, I wanted to apologize for keeping you from your job for so long."

You raise an eyebrow even though he can't see you. "As if that was your fault. Besides, looking after you is practically habit by now."  
He laughs. "Fair enough." There's a beat of silence and then, "Well, the last thing I wanted to tell you is how lonely my flat is without you here."

Vaguely, you recognize that your mouth is hanging open, but you make no move to change that, because you're not even really sure what to say. Eventually, you manage to say, "Is that so?"

Without seeing him, you know he's nodding. "It is. Let me also mention how you're practically your own furnace, and I had no idea how drafty my bedroom was until you didn't stay over last night."

Your face must be bright red by now, which is probably only proving his point.

"And why are you telling me all of this?" you ask, though you're not sure where you're pulling the words from because your mind is numb, your stomach is in knots, and your heart is pounding.

"Well, it's terribly embarrassing, but this was all an incredibly clever ploy in which I would somehow manage to convince you to come over and stay the night again."

Blindly, you reach down and find your arm with your thumb and forefinger, pinching the skin you find to check if you're still awake. It hurts, so you are, and you say, "You think you're being charming, don't you?"

"I _am_ being charming."

"The important part is that _you _think that."

You're quiet for a moment and he echoes the silence back to you.

The he says, "So, are you coming over then?"

Twenty minutes later, you're standing in his living room.

.

Despite your conversation, nothing in the way he acts around you gives away that anything has changed.

He welcomes you in, then leads you to his living room where he has a movie you've never seen before playing.

You sit beside him, as close as you usually do, and, eventually, he puts his arm around you—like he sometimes does. You look up at him as he does, but his face gives away nothing.

.

The only awkwardness is when the two of you are standing on either side of his bed.

"You can get in, you know," Harry tells you. "It has yet to bite me."

You slip between the covers and sit with your back against the headboard. Your eyes slip over to his nightstand as he climbs in beside you. Your note from a few days ago is still there, but the picture you'd taken from the frame in his second bedroom is on top of it.

Harry must see where you're looking, because he says, "Found that on your side of the bed the morning I tried to make you breakfast. Must have fallen out of your pocket or something."

You nod and, before you can stop yourself, you're asking, "Why is it folded like that?"

His gaze drops to his sheets and he's silent for a moment. "I, um…carried it around in my pocket for a while."

You ask why and he smiles at you.

"Honestly?" You nod. "Because that moment? Drinking with you and Ron and celebrating…I don't know. Just, being proud of you, I guess. That was the first time in the longest time that I can remember being happy to be me."

The way he says it breaks your heart in a hundred different ways, so you wrap your arms around him and you don't let go.

.

You start sleeping at his house every night. In fact, you stop going to your flat for anything other than clothes.

Even after he goes back to work—"I'll take the easy jobs only for a while, okay?" he promises, though it does little to calm your fears—you keep your routine of returning to his flat and making dinner together.

Neither of you bring up the fact that it's a little odd for two old friends, both of whom are adults, to be sharing a bed, but you think it would be too hard to stop now.

It's not until you have two drawers of clothes in his bedroom and your own shampoo in his shower that you realize, maybe some things _aren't_ better left unsaid.

More than anything, though, you're scared that saying something could bring an end to whatever it is that's going on.

.

The next time Harry gets hurt on a job, you're the first to know.

He stumbles into his flat an hour late and you stand up from the front couch immediately.

"Harry James Potter," you start, sternly, "Where on earth have you been?"

He's keeping his face turned from you and he says, "Had to work late. I'm fine."

He tries to head to the bathroom, but you stop him and turn his face in your hands.

A long gash on his forehead stares at you from under his blood-matted hair and your eyes grow wide when you glance down to see his jeans torn through and an even longer cut on his thigh.

He sits on the counter and you clean him up, first mending the cuts with your wand and then wiping away the remaining blood.

"What happened this time?" you ask.

He shrugs. "Same thing that always happened. Difference is, I won this time."  
You're quiet for a good, long time before you say, "You can't keep doing this to me, Harry."  
"Doing what?" His voice is hard and you're absolutely furious at him for the first time in a very long time.

"Making me worry. I thought you were dead, for God's sake." His features soften and he goes to apologize, but you stop him. "I just can't even remember a time when I wasn't absolutely terrified that I was going to lose you."

His open palms are warm on your waist. "I'm not gone, 'Mione. You haven't lost me."

He pulls you into his arms and for the first time in a long time, you allow yourself the luxury of crying.

.

He's more careful after that. He doesn't do dangerous jobs without backup and he's always home on time.

It doesn't cease your worrying—you'll always be worrying about him—but it helps some.

After a month of dancing around it, he asks, wouldn't you please move in? So you do.

Ginny and Ron help, though Ron seems more confused than his sister.

The first night with your sheets on his bed and your books on his shelf, you help him make dinner and he pulls you close as you wait for the timer to go off.

He kisses you and you're not surprised, even though your knees feel a bit weaker when he pulls away.

"Is that…is it okay if I do that?" he asks.

You slap him on the arm and kiss him. "It would have been okay if you'd done that the moment you met me," you tell him.

He laughs against your mouth and it's the loveliest thing you've ever heard, because he's awake and alive and you, miraculously—_gloriously_—haven't lost him.

..

_fin_

…

**references:**

Robert Frost's "I Have Been Acquainted With the Night."


End file.
